Page 36 of Velvet Betrayal (The Dark Prince of Boston #3)

Ruby

I hated it…but I had to tell Rosie about what had happened with Mickey Russell.

Before I told Erica Fields.

Before the whole world knew.

Rosie was curled up on the couch, knees tucked to her chest, tablet propped up on a pillow. She was watching some unicorn cartoon—again—but her eyes were glazed, thumb unmoving. Waiting for me.

I hovered for a second, then sat down next to her, smoothing my palms over my jeans like that might steady me. “Hey, mi amor. Can we talk for a minute?”

She looked up, startled. “Am I in trouble?”

“No, tesoro. Not even close.” I let out a slow breath, the kind that rattled on the way out. “I just need to tell you something. About what’s going to happen tomorrow. And about something that already happened.”

Rosie set her tablet aside, folding her hands in her lap. Too grown-up for her size. “Okay. What happened?”

This was it. No do-overs.

“There was a man—a long time ago—who did some very bad things. He hurt people. He…tried to hurt me.” My voice cracked. She didn’t even blink. Maybe this was how daughters of mothers like me learned: collecting each sharp piece of the story, no matter how much it stung.

“Did you call the police?” she asked, automatic, like she’d learned it at school.

I shook my head. “I didn’t. I kind of am the police.”

She frowned, correcting me. “But you’re not. You’re just the boss of them.”

It was like she was reading a fact off a cereal box. It almost made me laugh.

“That’s true,” I said. “But sometimes people who do bad things don’t care about the boss.

So I had to defend myself. And tomorrow, the reporters—the ones you see on TV—are going to ask a lot of questions about it.

Some of them are going to act like I made mistakes, or like I’m not a good person anymore. Some will say things that aren’t true.”

“Why?”

I hesitated. “Because I’m going to tell everyone I did that.”

“Why?” she asked again, even smaller this time.

I chewed the inside of my cheek, trying not to let it be her trauma, too. “Because if you don’t tell your own story, someone meaner will. And I want you to know the real one, from me, before it’s on every TV in Boston.”

Rosie nodded, biting her lower lip until it turned white. She rocked on her crossed legs, nervous, but she didn’t look away.

“Are you in trouble, Mami?” Her voice was barely there.

“Not the kind you have to be afraid of,” I lied. “But yes, some people are going to say I did something wrong. That I hurt somebody who didn’t deserve it.”

She twisted the hem of her pajama top, thinking. “Did he deserve it?”

My hands shook. I tucked them under my thighs. “Yes, baby. He really did. But it’s okay if you feel weird, or sad, or mad about it. There’s no wrong way to feel.”

She looked down, and for a second I was back in the hospital, her tiny body curled against my collarbone, swearing she’d never grow up haunted. I’d meant it. God, I’d meant it.

“Will you get fired?” she asked. “Like Ms. Gray did when she yelled at the principal?”

I almost laughed. “No, it’s not like that. I’m not going to get fired. I might get in trouble for a while, but I want you to know—nothing in the world is more important to me than keeping you safe. That’s what I did.”

“Was I here when you shot him? I don’t remember that.”

I shook my head. “You were at your dad’s.”

Rosie’s brow furrowed. “But he got inside our house.” Not a question—a memory. She hugged her knees tighter, eyes narrowing. “You told me guns are dangerous. Do you have one?”

“I did then, yes,” I said. “Alek gave it to me. He said I had to be able to defend myself. He was right.”

She thought about it. “So do you still have a gun?”

I hesitated. “Not right now. But if things get scary again, I will. That’s my job.”

Rosie exhaled, thinking hard, her stare so much like mine it made me look away. “Okay. He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“He did, a little. But that’s why I defended myself.”

She threw her arms around me. “No,” she said fiercely. “I don’t like it when you’re hurt.”

I hugged her tight, breathing in her shampoo. “I know, peanut. But he won’t hurt me again.”

She pulled back, studying me like she could read every bad decision on my face. “Are you scared?”

Rosie thought for a second, then asked, “Are they going to put you on TV?”

“Yes.”

She made a face, pure emoji. “I hate when you’re on TV. People say mean things in the comments.”

A laugh slipped out, bitter and bright. “I know. Promise me something? Don’t ever read the comments.”

Rosie nodded. Then she took my hand and didn’t let go.

“In school, Ms. Cormier says that when you’re scared you should tell someone.”

“Ms. Cormier is very smart,” I said.

She was quiet, plaiting my fingers with hers. Then, softly: “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

My throat closed. “Of course you can. Forever and ever if you want.”

She grinned, then just…went back to her show, like we hadn’t just dug up every bone in our future. She rested her head in my lap while I scrolled through tomorrow’s talking points, checked my phone for press leaks, anything to keep my hands busy.

I stroked her hair. “I’m also going to tell everyone your dad and I are getting divorced.”

She yawned. “I thought everyone knew that.”

I laughed. “Yeah, they don’t.”

“Okay. Can I keep watching my show now?”

“Of course, mi amor.” I squeezed her hand, amazed at how kids just…accepted you, no matter what. Like you were gravity, or weather.

She slid off my lap, found her Carty under a heap of blanket, and got lost in her unicorns. I watched her for a minute—pointy elbows, hair already coming loose, the way she tensed up during drama and then shrieked when the cartoon ended with hugs and sparkles.

I stood. “Just going to the bathroom. Back in a minute.”

I shut the door behind me, leaning against it for a second, letting the chill seep into my spine. The bathroom light was harsh, but I left it on. Muscle memory took over—wash hands, brush teeth I’d already brushed, wipe down the counter like the mess might tell on me if I didn’t.

Then I saw it.

The calendar, stuck to the mirror. I didn’t mean to look. Didn’t mean to count.

But I did.

Late.

Not enough to panic. But enough to notice. Enough that my stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with nerves or too much champagne or the tension in my shoulders from sleeping half-curled around Rosie, always listening for the door.

I opened the drawer under the sink. Pushed past the clutter—cracked nail polish, expired melatonin, a hairbrush missing half its teeth. And there, buried in the back like a dare I’d never meant to take…

…a pregnancy test.

Cheap. Dusty. Left over from the Julian years, when hope came once a month and grief was a private ritual in the bathroom trash.

Rosie had been enough, and still was enough. She was perfect, all I’d ever wanted. But when she started asking for a baby sister, we tried for a while, and it didn’t happen. Part of me always wondered if that was my fault—if I didn’t want it badly enough.

Part of me wondered if I just wanted Kieran again and knew it would only ever be him.

I sat down, peeled the foil open with shaking fingers, and followed the directions like I wasn’t standing on the edge of a cliff. Pee. Wait.

Three minutes.

Three…fucking…minutes.

I set the stick on the sink, face-down. The box said don’t look too early, like that was possible. In three minutes, I could rewrite my whole life. I could talk myself into hope, out of it, back again. I could build a future and burn it down twice over.

I stared at my hands instead. Knuckles dry and red, a hangnail bleeding at the edge, a faint blue smudge from Rosie’s homework. My hands looked like they belonged to someone else. Someone tired. Someone older than this moment.

District Attorney Ruby Marquez didn’t want this—she didn’t want to be pregnant when her life was falling apart, when she’d just been elected, when she was doing something historic and had a price on her head. That woman was tough, brave…and she couldn’t be vulnerable.

But me? Ruby—the girl who’d run into a cute guy at the gym and never got over him—there was a time when she wanted this. Desperately wanted a family with Kieran Callahan, two kids in that overpriced brownstone in Beacon Hill, a dog, and a minivan in the garage.

And I was both those women right now…and it made me dizzy.

I splashed water on my face and let the sting freeze me into something that resembled calm.

The test blinked into being faster than I was ready for. Ninety seconds—maybe less. The little window filled slowly, like it hated being honest.

And…there was a line.

Faint.

So faint I almost laughed.

I leaned in close enough to fog the glass on the mirror, already drafting the message to my OB in my head—Hey, this probably isn’t right, but can you run a blood test just in case my entire world is lying to me?

But it wasn’t a trick. Not an illusion.

The line was there.

Just like that, my life had a new axis. Invisible, absolute.

I set the test down. Looked up at myself in the mirror. Hair a mess. Mouth tight. Shadowed eyes. Not scared. Not brave, either.

And—God help me—part of me felt... steady.

Like something in the chaos had clicked into place.

Like my body knew something I didn’t want it to know: that no matter how much I swore I hated him, some part of me still wanted to carry him forward.

Still craved the gravity of him, even when it ruined everything else.

And then I started to laugh. Quiet at first. Then harder.

Not joy. Not hysteria.

Just the sound of Kieran Callahan completely changing my life…again.